


Excellent Judgment

by cimorene



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Sexual Tension, Speed-dating, X-Men First Class Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cimorene/pseuds/cimorene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your friends go to school while dating," says Charles thoughtfully.</p><p>"Lots of people do that, Charles. You're just a workaholic who owns a speed-dating business."</p><p>Charles waves that away. "Speed-dating doesn't take up any time at all. Once per month. Moira spends more time than that watching Clint Eastwood movies."</p><p>Raven sighs. "Everybody dates. You used to date!"</p><p>"That wasn't dating, Raven, that was drinking," explains Charles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Date

**Author's Note:**

> This was written, and originally posted, in response to [this speed-dating prompt](http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/2292.html?thread=1559284#t1559284) at the X-Men First Class kinkmeme.
> 
> Thanks to my buddy [Perhael](http://archiveofourown.org/users/perhael/pseuds/perhael) for audiencing and to [my boo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/waxjism/pseuds/waxjism) for proofreading.

It's always a mistake to trust your business partner. Charles has heard this before, but it always sounded like so much nonsense to him. Of course, he knows he's one of nature's more trusting souls, but he could never imagine how a successful partnership could function without trust.

At least, not until he arrives slightly late to the speed dating event of the season thanks to his little sister's college football game and finds that Moira has not only taken over his half of the welcome spiel, but also signed him up to participate.

"There he is," she says cheerfully, handing Charles a mochaccino just the way he likes it with one hand and wrapping the other arm around his shoulder. "Charles Xavier, co-founder of Express Match, and the first name on tonight's list!" It certainly is first on the list, written big and bold next to the number one in permanent marker.

"You're fired," Charles tells her.

Moira just laughs and pats him on the back. "And now that our straggler is in, if there are no more questions, I think we can start finding our places." She looks around expectantly, but apparently there are no questions, because chairs start shuffling around as everyone heads to their assigned table.

With uneven numbers, normally at this point in the evening Moira would add her own name to the bottom because, unlike Charles, she emphatically is "looking" right now.

"You could just remove me if I wasn't on top," says Charles as she writes her name on one of the restickable coloured cards that they use for the second column.

"Go to your seat, Mr. Xavier," says Moira mock-severely, with a gleeful twinkle in her eye that says she's getting her own back for last Friday's celebratory fourth and fifth raspberry margaritas. "It won't kill you to go on a date or twenty."

Just then Raven leans over so far that she's almost falling off of her barstool and snatches the card out of Moira's hand. "I've got this one, Moira," she says, and she's somehow fixed her hair since Charles picked her up after the game; how did she do that? She didn't bring a hair dryer into the front seat of the car. Charles definitely would have noticed. "You can supervise," she adds, and yes, she's definitely got her eye on someone behind Charles. "Can't have both of you taken up."

"Thank you, Raven," says Moira, communicating something conspiratorial with her eyebrows, and Raven grabs Charles by the elbow and drags him out into the sea of elegant little bistro tables and Charles gives up and drains the rest of his wine.

It should be fine. After all, Moira's never found a partner, in spite of participating five or six times since they got started. Of course, Moira's also not trying to finish her dissertation and teach two undergraduate courses and a seminar, and has no problem finding time to go on second dates every now and then. Charles, in contrast, has a hard time finding time to masturbate some days, let alone schedule multiple dates with the same person.

 

 **Date #1: Alex Summers**

The first guy who sits down at the table is way too young for Charles and not really his type, although in other circumstances (after a few pints) he'd be game enough for a snog, even in spite of the jock uniform - jeans, trainers, and spiky hair. Jocks tend to be great at giving head, he's found, which isn't that surprising when you think about all those locker rooms.

Charles pays nominal attention to the stage where they search out mutual interests. It seems like a wasted five minutes at first: Charles has no knowledge of NASCAR racing, geology, or astronomy, doesn't play basketball or football, and doesn't know anything about motorbikes; and Alex doesn't know anything about genetics or evolutionary biology, doesn't care for chess, and enjoys running but doesn't have anything to say about it. Charles only tries Game of Thrones in the spirit of "watched anything good on TV lately", but he hits the jackpot because it turns out that Alex's baby brother is "into all that sci-fi stuff". His name is Scott and he's twelve years old but crazy smart for his age. Alex has been helping him make a Luke Skywalker costume for Comic Con and they've been checking out library books on laser beams because Scott is determined to make his own lightsaber.

"If he doesn't break up with Star Wars by the time he turns eighteen, he'll be majoring in particle physics and it won't stop until he's designed an electron torpedo," says Alex. "And he'll probably have the government thinking it was their idea."

Scott sounds like Charles's kind of kid, he thinks, and by the time Alex leaves the table he's definitely talked him into enrolling Scott in the summer science camp run by the College of Engineering. Moira should be pleased about that; Charles even gave out his email address, although admittedly it was just because he promised to pass along the life-sized cardboard Yoda cut-out that the Rainbow Alliance liberated from Blockbuster after the release of _Revenge of the Sith._

 

 **Date #4: Angel Salvadore**

Charles has practically already forgotten the name of number two and can feel three fading when four sits down in front of him. She's an objectively beautiful woman and she wears an indefinable air of confidence like the jacket she hasn't got on. Her name tag says "Angel", and the tattoos Charles glimpsed on her back before she sat down are elaborate enough that he'll surely remember her even if she's boring.

"Professor Xavier," she says, when he introduces himself as Charles. "I've never had a chance to take one of your classes, but I've heard about them, of course. Tell me more about your seminar on bioethics, public health and population engineering ... unless you'd rather not talk shop, of course?"

There are no times when Charles would rather not talk shop. He tells her about it.

The funny thing about Angel is her body language as she listens, interested yet defensive at the same time. She's mirroring and obviously following each point intently, yet her expression is cool and one of her arms is on the table, the other slung on the back of the chair with her leather jacket.

"Surely if you present the concept of public health without problematising it, particularly in the context of genetic engineering, the use or misuse of governmental and medical authority is irrelevant," she says at last.

"Presenting a historical review of the questionable actions taken in the name of 'public health' is the very premise of the course," says Charles, surprised.

"No, I get that," says Angel. "But if we confine our critique of previous attempts at population engineering to specific instances, aren't we leaving the door open for a hypothetical 'good' attempt down the line?"

Of course what she's saying is completely impracticable, because the last thing they need is the abolishment of public health initiatives. But she's also got a good point and an admirable passion. Charles has booked her as a guest speaker for his seminar by the end of the five minutes. He's never guest spoken in Women's Studies before, but he's agreed to that too, as well as added another email address to his phone.

 

 **Date #5: Erik Lensherr**

Charles's fifth date of the evening sits down while he's saving Angel's email address. He's had his Blackberry for six months, at Raven's recommendation, so he's got no excuse for being confused by the mechanics of making new entries in his address book. He wishes he had just bought an iphone. They must be easy to be so -

"Don't let me interrupt," says a soft baritone voice from the other side of the table with an undercurrent of amusement and pure sex and what might be electrical sparks if its effect on Charles's spine is anything to go by. He looks up into the eyes of the most perfect man he's ever seen.

All right, that's not strictly true; the tall, handsome stranger in the tight black shirt has smile lines, which are pleasant to look at but objectively speaking a sign of age as well as a deviation from abstract perfection, and his facial symmetry isn't perfect - in fact the perfect sensuousness of his wide mouth and his wide chiselled jaw is augmented by the asymmetrical placement of what Charles suspects will be dimples when he smiles properly.

The man arches an eyebrow faintly because Charles is staring, but he doesn't care. He's not done staring yet and he's not going to stop until he's fully satisfied he's taken in every detail of those sharp cheekbones, the newly-shaven jaw, the - Charles is thinking about the grain of skin on his throat. Possibly he should have made more time in his schedule for getting laid.

"Erik," Charles says, reading his name tag aloud. "Nice to meet you. I'm Charles."

"Charles," Erik repeats. His gaze drops to Charles's name tag pinned to his waistcoat. "I can see that. What brings you out here mingling with your customers? Always like to sample the wares, do you?"

 _Yesyesyes_ clamours every cell associated with Charles's reproductive system in unison.

"Not normally, no," says Charles self-deprecatingly, not ready to break eye contact again if Erik won't. "I normally leave that to Moira and confine myself to masterminding." He taps his temple demonstratively. "But I thought it was time for a change."

Erik smiles slowly, revealing a broad range of remarkably even white teeth. The electrical tingles on Charles's spine are back. He's not remotely surprised when he asks what Erik does and he says that he's an electrical engineer. "But that's just what I do," Erik dismisses. "I'm a sculptor. What about you, Charles?"

For the first time, lust clouding his mind seems to make it easier to talk instead of harder. It's opened a channel directly to his subconscious and somehow all the images he's entertaining of Erik... _sculpting_ things with those long elegant hands only spur him to reply, "I research genetics - I'm writing my dissertation. And I like to think of myself as a student of the human condition."

Erik smiles a little condescendingly. "And how do you like what you've learned?"

"Very much," says Charles promptly, leaning forward over the table. "More every day."

Erik licks his lips and a buzzer sounds just as Charles is about to ask him what it is that he sculpts. He waits with some irritation for the sound to stop so he can reclaim Erik's attention and ask him anyway, and so he's actually surprised when Moira, now standing in the centre of the room, claps her hands and announces it's time for their intermission. The night is halfway over.

It doesn't even feel like the same day as the beginning of the night.

 

 **Intermission**

Charles suggests, with impressive self-restraint, that they continue their conversation over coffee, mainly because he can't invite Erik home with him in the middle of his own event for some very good reasons that he can't call to mind right now. Besides, it might be considered too forward, and there's something in Erik's manner, a self-contained strength, a reserve that's frankly all the more alluring, as though he has no intention of tearing his eyes away from Charles but he's not entirely certain he's showing good judgement

And Charles needs him to understand that it would be showing _excellent_ judgement to go home with Charles or at least agree to go on a date with him, even if he thinks he has no time for dating, even if he's running a business and teaching three classes and writing a dissertation all at once like Charles is. If Charles can make time (and he obviously will; he'll find a way. It's bound to work out), then so can Erik.

They stand at the bar drinking coffee and discussing bourbon, scotch, and the evils of cheap vodka for some time, and then chess - Erik plays chess, and he says "We'll have to have a game sometime, then," before Charles can extend the invitation.

"My father taught me to play," says Charles.

Erik smiles unexpectedly at that, a bright flash of teeth, a warm spark of laughter in his eye. (His eyes are very pale, almost colourless - the same mutation as Charles and Raven, but a very different effect. Intense, thinks Charles, a little breathless, and takes another long, steadying drink of his coffee.)

At Charles's inquiring look, he explains, "My mother used to play chess with me. She hates chess, but I wanted to practice, you see, and I was embarrassed to ask my friends to play chess with me. So my mother did it, with never a word of complaint. Which is quite a feat for a Jewish mother, I can tell you." He grins to himself, infectious and earnest, showing the predicted dimples.

"When I went away to college we were packing up my chess set, hadn't played together for years since I got too good for her and joined the chess club; and I thought I should leave it for her as a memento, that I should buy my own since I was an adult now, but before I could ask she handed it to me and said 'Here, and thank God I won't have to look at it ever again!' I asked didn't she want it, and she said, 'Erik, sweetie, I've been looking forward to the day you would take that chess set out of my house for years.'"

Charles feels his heart contract so sharply with pain that he almost looks away from Erik's happiness; it's too much and not enough at the same time, like a window into a life he never had with his father, and all the vivid, happy memories of chess they might have made together if he'd been there to see Charles off to Oxford.

Erik senses it and his brow creases, but Charles waves it aside, laughs and says "That's a lovely story, you know. Have you still got the set?"

"Of course." Erik acquiesces to the change in subject, but with a sharp look that says it isn't forgotten. "I keep it in a box under my bed along with all the other things she isn't allowed to look at, now that I'm at home again. Rent," he adds. "And she's got a backyard big enough to hold a metalworking studio."

The buzzer for the end of the intermission comes far too soon.

 

 **Dates #6-7: Bobby and someone or other who likes drag queens**

After the intermission comes a boy who took one of Charles's classes last year or the year before; they have a brief chat, and Charles is gratified to learn that his lectures were apparently what convinced Bobby, whose ambition is professional snowboarding, to switch minors to biology. On the other hand, Bobby's obviously not interested in dating him any more than Charles is interested in anything right now aside from observing Erik at the next table. The would-be snowboarder excuses himself to use the bathroom well before the five minutes are over, leaving Charles free to study Erik openly.

It's impossible to catch more than a few glimpses of Erik while he's talking to his next date, who happens to share Charles's taste for reality tv. They spend five minutes analysing Shangela's motivations on season 3 of _Rupaul's Drag Race_ and the likelihood of a fat drag queen ever winning. Erik glances over his shoulder and makes eye contact with Charles three times, and when it's time to change dates again he pauses with his hand on the back of his chair and aims a small smile directly at Charles - almost a self-conscious one, unlike his earlier grins. He has auburn hair, realises Charles to his delight. Ginger hair. Extraordinary.

 

 **Date #8: Dr. Emma Frost**

Dr. Frost is a geneticist who teaches at Inglewood College, a private liberal arts institution in the next town over. Thanks to an agreement between Inglewood and the university, Charles sees her from time to time on campus.

"Charles," she says composedly, giving him a cool nod and crossing her legs under the table. She's always dressed in some combination of cream and white; it took Charles a long time to notice, as in the labs she's always wearing a lab coat, but he's beginning to wonder, now, if she isn't colour-blind. "Quite a successful little undertaking you're running here."

"We do all right," says Charles. "Were you thinking of going into the business yourself, Dr. Frost?"

She smirks a little at that. "Hardly. And call me Emma, please. This is very nice, actually, though the venue is a bit small. Have you thought about scaling up a bit - a restaurant, or even a ballroom? You could charge a great deal more per head. Charity fund-raisers always garner a little price hike from goodwill, and it would bring in more publicity, too."

"Thank you for the idea," says Charles. "I don't know if Westchester is ready for charity speed-dating, though, or whether our little project is up to that scale of production." Something about her calm gaze makes him add, "Yet," and summon a satisfied-looking grin of his own.

There's a white cashmere cape draped over one of her shoulders. She's not really wearing it, but she hasn't put it on the back of the chair either; it's attached to her clothes somehow, Charles suddenly grasps. Maybe safety pins. Maybe it's actually part of her shirt. Or magnets somewhere.

She smiles suddenly and says, "I know you'll keep it in mind. I'm sure Inglewood would be interested in a joint event if your name were attached to it as well. These cooperative projects have been working so well in the last few years, don't you think? There's so much value for both of our institutions in the relationship." She doesn't mention the students.

Charles isn't entirely sure whether pressure from Inglewood is urging her to secure Charles's cooperation as a speed-dating guru or as a geneticist, or both, or whether it's her own idea to get support from Westchester, perhaps to strengthen her position, at the department or the administrative level. Maybe both, thinks Charles, looking at the diamond glint in her ears. There's nothing on her that isn't expensive, and loudly expensive. Charles knows expensive. Most of what is now the Westchester campus belonged at one time to his family.

Either way, there's no saying that the charity event is a bad idea, provided they have enough warning to hire plenty of help. Charles isn't particularly interested in university politics, but he can think of several groups at the university in need of funds off the top of his head. A fund-raiser might be a big success, judging by the popularity of his and Moira's little experiment.

He accepts Dr. Frost's email address on a cream-coloured business card, even though they both know perfectly well that they have each other's emails in their college e-mail accounts. "My personal address," she says sweetly, and leaves early - not just the table, but the café: she picks up her cream-coloured bag, turns, and walks out the door.

 

 **Date #10: Raven Xavier**

Charles has an unobstructed view of Erik for the next five minutes, and Erik of him. They maintain eye contact for most of it, and Charles talks about mutations, which he can talk about in his sleep, at whomever he's sitting in front of. He thinks there's some discussion of Bergman films too, but he's not certain which ones or why. Erik appears to be talking very little. Charles has never learned to read lips, though, so what he does talk about remains a mystery concealed in the café's ambient noise. If he ever does learn to read lips, he might be able to analyse it retroactively, he reflects. He's very good at _watching_ them.

"You need to get laid," says Raven, his tenth and final date of the evening.

"Raven," hisses Charles.

"So bad," she says, pityingly, and hands him a pint. "Here. I told you."

"I'm still supposed to do work tonight," Charles tells her.

"I scored a goal; now I'm buying you a drink. Drink it," says his sister, with an expectant face he's familiar with from childhood action figure tea parties. (Raven didn't play much with her dolls, just gave them makeovers. Lots of makeovers.)

"Your friends go to school while dating," says Charles thoughtfully.

"Lots of people do that, Charles. You're just a workaholic who owns a speed-dating business."

Charles waves that away. "Speed-dating doesn't take up any time at all. Once per month. Moira spends more time than that watching Clint Eastwood movies."

Raven sighs. "Everybody dates. You used to date!"

"That wasn't dating, Raven, that was drinking," explains Charles.

"Well... fucking," Raven declares in compromise. "Anyway, it looks like that one's been out of the game for longer than you have. He told Hank it had been five years since he'd been out here, and then he clammed right up when Hank asked why - Hank?" she adds at Charles's frown, indicating a tall, lanky kid with dark hair at one of the tables across the circle.

"What else did he say?"

"You'd have to ask Hank," says Raven. Charles considers doing it, even though it would undoubtedly be kind of weird, coming from a total stranger. "He's in your department," she says in response to his baffled look, with an eyeroll. "I know we undergraduates are just so much impressionable genetic material to you, but -"

The penny drops. The café is dimly lit, but Charles mentally pastes a pair of hipster glasses and a plaid shirt on Hank and then it's obvious. "McCoy! You mean Henry McCoy is called Hank?" He's never asked Charles to call him Hank. But then again, he still calls Charles 'Professor,' in spite of having been invited to use his name countless times. If he's not a stranger, then Charles can definitely ask him what Erik said.

Raven is patting his shoulder. "Anyway, I've got a ride back to campus. I'm going to beat the rush. Call me tomorrow, okay? After you make him breakfast."

"Raven," Charles protests weakly, but he kisses her cheek goodbye and takes his empty pint glass up to the bar.

 

 **The One That Matters**

"Is this the official location for the losers whose dates abandon them?" says a familiar voice behind him.

Erik's standing close, and Charles has to look up into his face when he turns around. "Have you been abandoned too?"

"I think you should offer some kind of guarantee," says Erik solemnly.

Charles leans against the bar and tilts his head back to better appreciate the view. "As a matter of fact, we do offer a replacement date at no extra charge."

Erik smiles. "Well, that's a relief."

You have no idea, Charles wants to tell him. He has a really hard time asking people out without referring to their mutations, which he's been told is a very bad pick-up line. It's much better if he doesn't have to ask.

"Is this simply a sort of... repair date, making up for the missing time? Or an entirely new one?"

"A new one, definitely," says Charles. He's very affected by Erik's proximity, even more so than before. Erik is leaning in slightly to be heard over the background noise, but it's enough that Charles can smell his cologne and it's driving him slightly insane. There's simply no way Erik can objectively smell as good as he smells to Charles; their pheromones must be super-compatible. "Preferably as soon as possible. Not that the customer isn't always right, but -"

"Soon works for me," interrupts Erik. He looks strangely determined - like he's nerved himself up to it - but he continues, "Are you free right now? We could go somewhere else and talk."

Every part of Charles except his cock is excited about that, is the sad thing. His cock can probably be brought on board as well with a little persuading. After all, there's Erik's voice.

"Well, we're just finishing up -"

"He's free," Moira puts in. She's standing on the other side of the bar and only a few feet away. Charles glances at her and she gives him a wink.

"Dinner?" says Charles.

"There's nothing I'd like more," says Erik. It doesn't sound like a figure of speech in his voice. It sounds like brutal honesty. Which is a little alarming, but Charles likes it.

"Then - all right." He touches Erik's elbow to lead him away, and then thinks instantly, Oh no, that was too familiar when I'm trying to date him, not lure him back into the hall by the toilets. He feels the minute start of surprise travel through the muscles under his fingers, too...

... but then Erik just relaxes and grins down at him, bringing those smile lines beside his eyes into play, and says mildly, "Lead the way."

Charles does.


	2. Second Date

His car today is the 1990s Volvo station wagon that belonged to his father, because Raven doesn't want her footy gear touching the precious upholstery of the blue Maserati that they currently share because Charles refused to buy two cars if one of them was going to be that expensive.

Charles thinks that the Volvo looks like a particularly unattractive golden brick, but Raven has referred to it as the Vampire Volvo of Great Justice since Charles was doing his Master's. He's been told it has to something to do with Twilight.

"Did you bring a car?" he thinks to ask as he's unlocking the door manually.

Erik nods towards the side of the parking lot, where a motorbike gleams in lonely splendour under a tree. "I can come back for it," he says. Motorbikes are really not as uninteresting as Charles thought before.

"All right," says Charles, hurrying around to the driver's side. He hopes that was an implication that Erik plans to stay the night. "I can drive you."

"Thanks," Erik says. "So what did you have in mind?"

Charles pauses with the key in the ignition and turns his head to look at Erik: denim stretched over his slightly splayed thighs, his leather jacket unzipped, the hint of smile in the corners of his mouth. Yes, Charles has a lot of things in mind, and has had for the last hour for that matter. He lets what he's thinking show on his face, and he's sure Erik sees it, but that cool amusement in Erik's face is undisturbed. He looks at Charles looking at him with an aura of calm satisfaction, but uncannily focused attention, the glow of his gaze on Charles's skin as steady and filled with the promise of heat as banked coals.

It's hard to tear his attention away from such an appealing picture, but Charles insists on keeping his eyes on the road when he drives. "I didn't," he admits. "I thought you'd say yes, of course -"

Erik laughs.

" -But not to _tonight._ I was planning takeout, my box set of The West Wing, and marking. How about Mio's? You can generally get in without reservations. Or the Great Wall has started serving Korean as well, and you never have to wait for a table there."

"I think I'd prefer somewhere a little less crowded," Erik says. "Once a child left a sticky hand-print on the back of my jacket at Mio's. I had to take it to be dry-cleaned."

Charles glances over in time to catch the moue of distaste, but Erik returns his look with a wry half-smile curling his mouth. "All right then, my friend, no waiting rooms and no family-friendly restaurants," he says. "Given that it's Friday evening before eleven o'clock and this is a college town... well, there's McDonald's, or Wendy's..."

"takeout sounds more appealing," murmurs Erik.

"The wait's hours on Friday evening nearly everywhere," Charles reminds him. "I don't know about you, but I'm already hungry."

"Hmm," Erik says, "I think I know just the place."

He directs Charles and the Vampire Volvo of Great Justice past Fraternity Row and behind the College of Nursing to a tiny building in a minuscule gravel lot at the end of a residential street Charles didn't even know was hiding between campus and the business district. Erik's profile is really extraordinary: the high brow, the dark eyebrows, the dusting of ginger stubble on the sharp angle of his jaw and around the delicate curve of his top lip. Charles is a little breathless from wanting to ask everything there is to know about him all at once.

"I didn't even know this street was here," he says instead, following Erik into the restaurant. A vinyl banner hanging on the wall promises Middle Eastern Dine In Or Take Out!, though aside from the plastic lawn furniture outside it looks more like an abandoned laundromat than a diner.

"I don't think many people do," Erik remarks over his shoulder. "I've tried to tell Salam they should move to bigger premises, if only to boost their profits enough to hire a delivery boy."

A handful of quiet customers are eating happily from paper plates and watching the game, but the place is quiet, clean, and a little bit ratty, filled with the spicy scents of middle eastern food, which as far as Charles knows isn't sold at any other restaurant in town.

Between them they order close to half the menu, and the chubby boy behind the counter, with a friendly smile for Erik, gives them a basket of pita slices with cups of sauce nestled among them for while they wait. Charles watches Erik shred the pita bread into strips with neat, economical movements and dip them into the grainy fresh hummus swimming in oil and fragrant spices. He eats carefully, licking his lips between each one, letting his eyes flicker up to rest on Charles only when the first triangle is gone.

"Been coming here long?" Charles asks softly, once he decides he doesn't mind that it sounds like a line.

"A few years," Erik says, flat, and his wide sculpted mouth pulls down at one corner, a hint of ice invading the long lines of his face. Charles shouldn't find his displeasure so entrancing, but the shuttered expression just makes him want to stick his fingers in the gap between the shutters and pry them open, even if they both get full of splinters in the process.

"When you mentioned your profession before you skimmed past fairly quickly," says Charles. "Where does a reluctant electrical engineer work?"

Erik shrugs. "This one works in the College of Engineering, for his sins. Don't get me wrong, there was a time when I was passionate about the field." Something's buried there - the passion surfaces momentarily in response to Erik's memory, reflected clearly in the green oceans of his eyes. "There's something very comforting about the predictable complexities of building machinery and circuitry. But I suspect undergraduates have the power to suck the joy out of almost anything," he adds, too lightly.

Charles has to dig a little. "But you like it."

Erik bares his teeth briefly, a flat smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm good at it," he corrects gently, with an unpretentiously arrogant confidence that tells Charles he's speaking the truth.

Arrogance and confidence both look good on him, of course. They reach into the pita basket at the same moment and their hands collide, and Charles leaves his there, hovering over the bread with two fingers brushing the palm of Erik's hand. He doesn't look down, or away from Erik's face.

"What's the one that's not hummus?" he asks. "I'm sure I've had it before, but I don't know where."

"Baba ghanoush." Erik's mouth quirks up at one side and he leans forward as if imparting a secret, but it mainly has the effect of intoxicating Charles with the subtle scent of his cologne again. "It's made with eggplant," is the only secret he imparts, however.

Charles finds himself scooting closer to the table, leaning forward to look closer at Erik. Erik's eyes are really brilliant, in multiple senses of the word, but it's the expression on his face, even more than the need to study his unique facial topography, that has Charles captivated. The dimples have smoothed into shallow grooves beside his mouth; the smile lines are relaxed, the eyebrows quirked slightly, as if against his will, and his lips unconsciously parted in concentration as his eyes search Charles's face. It's not simple curiosity in his expression; there's a unique note of urgency, and a faint but definite hint of hope, that all make Charles feel he's never been looked at this way before. So intently, so... _nakedly_ , so... _hard._

It's at this point that Charles decides with finality that he _definitely_ hasn't been getting laid enough. Raven was right, and she did tell him, but it can be difficult to take advice from your baby sister. He owes her an apology.

Fortunately, he's already formed every intention of rectifying the situation. Until then, it's the most sexually charged wait for takeout Charles has ever experienced.

The thing about Erik is that he doesn't get angry about being contradicted - well, actually, he probably is a bit angry, but it doesn't seem to be a problem for him; probably he's used to being mildly angry, especially if he really hates undergraduates that much - he seems partly amused and partly intrigued by being told that they were undergraduates once, that Charles's sister is an undergraduate, that just because you're taking a course outside your major doesn't make you a dilettante, and that distribution requirements are a good thing because otherwise the science majors wouldn't have the least idea about history and the artists would all graduate not knowing how gravity works and the liberal arts students would know how to write persuasive essays and nothing else.

"I fail to see how that differs substantially from the current state of affairs," drawls Erik as Charles pulls up by the door - apparently just to be contrary, going by the dimple that appears while Charles is drawing breath to explain it.

The dimple briefly makes Charles forget his argument anyway, so it's a good thing Erik was just being a shit. The shit-being continues as he follows Charles to the side door, surveying the looming hulk of the manor with a raised eyebrow. "I see now why a geneticist would defend the humanities," he remarks with a low whistle.

To say Charles has heard comments about the house a thousand times would be conservative, but this is a new one, and he actually laughs at it. "Don't judge a library by its architectural detailing, my friend."

"I'd be quite interested to see your library, actually. I've always wanted to manhandle a bust of Plato."

Charles flicks on the kitchen lights and goes to the dishwasher for plates. "Well, I thought we'd eat in the study since it's where I keep the booze and computers. - Silverware's in the drawer to the left of the fridge there. - But I suppose we could go dig up some plaster Greeks and Romans afterwards, if you're still having violent impulses when you've tasted my 12-year Coffey malt."

"I'll keep it in mind," Erik murmurs, with a sharp grin that implies he might be using the impulses for something else instead.

Charles shivers, offers him a beer, and starts an argument in favour of small class sizes and targeted teaching methods mainly to prevent himself from mentioning how comfortable and large the sofa in the study is. (Even above his bed, this sofa is Charles's single favourite piece of furniture that has nothing to do with bookcases. He's never gotten laid on it, because his history of dating and hookups took place largely at Oxford and Yale - or in bars. Raven told him once, though, that it was basically the ideal third. He didn't speak to her for a week and he's never gotten that out of his head.)

"But there's nothing so rewarding as seeing that it's your own excitement, your effort, that's inspired that passion for learning in a young mind," Charles babbles as he starts shoving his Macbook, his reading glasses, his six stacks of papers for marking, his forest of empty and half-empty tea and coffee mugs, and his collection of paperclip sculptures off the coffee table.

"I inspire passion and excitement easily enough in a lecture hall packed with fifty souls or more," Erik says dismissively. "Once a week like clockwork, when I let them go early on Friday."

The other thing about Erik is that his casual misanthropy, apparently impervious as it is to persuasion, isn't off-putting to Charles in the least. There's humour in his voice when he says that attempting to educate idiots at all is a waste of time, so he's probably being facetious, Charles tells himself. But on the other hand, Charles once called Butterfield a smug prig regurgitating half-baked classist bilge for making essentially the same argument.

Erik is a bit smug, but he's definitely not a prig. Charles tells him that, and Erik laughs, quick and bright, leaning back in the corner of Charles's favourite sofa.

" _You're_ calling _me_ smug?" he says, with an impish, smug look.

Charles pours himself another finger of whisky and water and grins at Erik, unoffended, he suspects, by virtue of some combination of alcohol and endorphins. "When I try not to be smug, Raven says I just get smugger. To be honest, I don't think I really am smug at all, but I can't seem to stop appearing that way to everyone else."

Erik coughs. "And is that a serious problem for you?"

Charles leans closer to him, resting his elbow on the back of the sofa and dropping his chin in his hand. "Mm, you know, it used to be. It's why I was so anxious to get out of this place when I went to Oxford," he confesses. "I mean, not this place entirely. Well, this place too, but prep school and boys' choir - hey, don't laugh, boys' choir is a perfectly - all right," he says, "but anyway, even in an obscenely overpriced preparatory school, I was - different."

Erik relaxes a little further into the curve of the couch, bringing his face closer. "You mean a nerd," he says.

"A little nerd. With an English accent."

"Speaking of that -"

"My mother. Summers in England, school year here. You?"

"Summers in the Bronx, school year in the Bronx. I didn't think my accent was that noticeable," he teases gently.

Charles blinks, "The Bronx? The surprise is that it isn't."

"I've been told it comes out when I'm drunk," Erik offers.

"I wasn't planning on quite that level of intoxication," Charles says apologetically. "It being our first date."

Erik drains the small remainder of whisky in his glass, as if reminded by the turn of the conversation, and pauses to savour it with his eyes closed, sighing. Then he licks his lips, and by the time Charles realizes he's speaking it's utterly too late to call back the first few words.

"Er, sorry. What was that?"

Erik smirks at him slowly under heavy eyelids. "I said it would be a waste to adulterate the after-taste of your 12-year Coffey malt with inferior liquor anyway."

Charles bites his lip to prevent himself from asking Erik to pronounce "adulterate" and "inferior liquor" again, slowly. His taste for multisyllabic words can wait for a later date.

"Though you're wrong about one thing," says Erik.

"A gratifyingly optimistic view of my level of fallibility," approves Charles.

"It's actually our second date. I was assured by the owner that this date would be a full replacement for the date with that goatee guy, not just a partial." Erik's eyebrows have great powers of suggestion, and they're currently suggesting things on several levels to Charles, not all of which are entirely fair. They're definitely good-humoured, playful, subtly inviting. Charles doesn't dare start applying adjectives to his eyes, or they'll be fully clothed all night and probably completely forget their dessert, which would be a horrible waste of baklava.

"Oh, you're right," he says. "How embarrassing to have forgotten our first date already."

Erik waves that aside. "Don't worry about it."

"I'm not usually quite that absent-minded. Although I can't deny the absent-minded professor label entirely, I'm afraid. Would you believe that it's just the excitement and pleasure of your company which have blurred the details of the earlier part of this evening into a haze of - happiness and somewhat embarrassing eagerness and lust?"

"I believe it," says Erik, in a slightly roughened voice. He shifts in his seat, turning to face Charles more fully until their knees are nudging together.

"Oh," Charles breathes, "Er - that's a relief." There was something he meant to say. Something unrelated to sex. Either he would remember it any second now, or the lust would overcome his higher brain functions sufficiently to make him forget about it.

"I don't think I've ever met anyone quite like you," Erik muses, mirroring Charles's pose fully with his head in his hand.

Charles rethinks losing his higher brain functions suddenly - what if he also loses the capacity for conversation? Erik expects him to produce complete sentences. Charles wouldn't want to disappoint him so early in their relationship. More importantly, he wants them to have a relationship of long duration.

"How so?" says Charles, dredging the remnants of his brain for verbal faculty and searching in vain for wit.

"Well." Erik frowns slightly, not at Charles, but still Charles wants to bend over and smooth out the wrinkle in his brow.

With his mouth.

" - Since I took the job at Westchester I haven't really - engaged - with other people like this; nothing too personal. I didn't expect speed-dating to change that so quickly - no offence to your profession, but five minutes doesn't seem like enough time to get to know anyone in the best circumstances, and it's been quite a while since I've tried to."

"I know. Five years," says Charles.

Erik raises what is rapidly becoming Charles's favourite eyebrow (possibly in the world). "Was there a background check involved in the sign-up process that I didn't know about?"

Charles laughs. "No, my sister told me. She was at my table for the last date of the evening, and she'd been talking to Henry McCoy - Hank."

"Ah, the lovely young woman who deprived me of my date with the man with the goatee! In that case, Charles, I think you owe me twice."

"More dates, you mean?" asks Charles hopefully.

Erik's mouth curls in a slow, sensuous smirk. "You see, that's what I mean."

Charles is embarrassed to admit that he's lost the thread of conversation again, even if it is Erik's mouth's fault.

His face must convey his confusion, because Erik adds, "What you did just there. You're a presumptuous and arrogant man, understandably enough given your background, and yet it doesn't bother me in the slightest. I've never met you before tonight and I don't let people in as a rule; and I had no intention of really dating - as opposed to speed-dating - anyone. But I haven't been on my guard since the first time we spoke."

"You needn't be on your guard with me," Charles rushes to tell him.

Erik shakes his head wryly. "It doesn't matter. It's too late even if I should."

The strange thing is that Charles knows what Erik means. He's felt oddly comfortable all evening - aside from the purely hormonal discomfort of the intense sexual attraction that's setting his teeth on edge - as if somehow they already knew each other.

He touches Erik's arm where it rests on the back of the couch. "Erik." The only thing he can think of to say is 'I feel the same way', which he's already made abundantly clear, and which is on the cheesy side even for him. He tries to say it with eye contact instead.

Erik's smile goes crooked and toothy after a long moment of openly, hungrily searching Charles's face that leaves Charles short of breath. "You've never been frightened to open up to anyone in your life, have you?" he says with an undertone of bitterness.

Before he can stop himself Charles has seized the hand that's folded in a fist, supporting Erik's chin. "My friend, you'd be surprised."

Erik looks startled, but he surrenders his hand willingly. His eyebrows both lift, so the warm golden light refracts in his pale green eyes, shining on his parted lips when he licks them. "Surprise me," he invites, turning his hand gently in Charles's grip only to clasp their palms together properly.

Charles kisses him, of course, with a shuddering gasp of relief when their mouths touch that more than fulfils the promise of those electrical tingles he felt down his back when their eyes first met. It's amazing. That wide sculpted mouth seems to scorch to his bones, opening slick and smooth and patiently voracious, like he's ready to drink Charles to the last drop.

"Sorry," Charles murmurs when he's pulled back a few millimetres to pant for breath. "I'm afraid that wasn't much of a surprise." He takes the opportunity of having his eyes open to thread the fingers of his free hand into the dark auburn curls behind Erik's ear.

"You're forgiven," says Erik, picking Charles up by the waist and laying him back on the sofa. Charles grabs him by the neck and pulls him down in reach of his mouth when Erik is too slow to kiss him again. He tastes like Charles's favourite whisky, a hint of spices and cigarette smoke. Charles can't resist the long curve of his lip, traces it gently and licks into the corner of Erik's mouth, raspy with ginger stubble and faintly salty.

Always an excellent multi-tasker, Charles has no problem dealing with Erik's belt buckle while Erik is occupied with the buttons of Charles's cardigan.

"Don't you want to take this to a bed?" Erik asks in between kissing Charles's ear and the corner of his jaw.

"Not in the slightest," Charles says with relish. "The sofa's very comfortable."

"I'm about to tear this fucking cardigan off you," Erik says in a dangerous tone. Charles wouldn't mind, really, but he laughs and takes over undressing himself anyway. He leaves the cardigan and the shirt tangled together, drags them over his head when he's got enough buttons open and drops them over the back of the sofa.

Erik has lost the leather jacket and black t-shirt already, and Charles briefly regrets not having time to thoroughly appreciate the sleek muscles of his chest and shoulders before getting distracted by the blade-sharp hipbones and long hard thighs. Erik strips quickly and gracefully out of his worn jeans and cotton boxers while Charles lifts his hips to wriggle out of his chinos.

There are freckles scattered over Erik's chest and shoulders, freckles that blend into his golden tan and blur into focus as he prowls up the couch and looms over Charles with a crooked, predatory grin. His fingers are rough with calluses, but the big hand he wraps around Charles's thigh is so gentle that the light touch makes Charles shudder all over, nipples and belly and up the back of his neck, right down to his toes.

"Is this good?" Erik rumbles, sliding between Charles's legs, resting his weight on his elbow.

Charles kicks his trousers out of the way. "God, yes," he says impatiently, "get down here," and hooks his heel over the back of Erik's thigh.

The application of a little force is necessary to make Erik settle his weight on top of Charles. Erik is tall and strong, but he can't possibly think he's too heavy; he's built like a runner, three quarters leg, broad shoulders and trim waist, all spare planes of muscle over a harsh topography of bone: hard scallops of hip digging into Charles's belly, stark shoulderblades that fill the palms of Charles's hands, thumb hollows at the top of that luscious arse.

"I won't _break_ , you know," Charles says, and bites his lip gently in encouragement, digs his toes into the back of Erik's knee.

The hand that's been smoothing up and down his thigh tightens its grip and Erik pulls back and smiles at him. "Not on the second date," he agrees.

Charles makes a strangled noise of lust and drags Erik's mouth down into another significantly filthy kiss.

God, Erik can kiss. That mouth is as sinful as it looks, and he's kissing deep and stubbornly slow; but he's not holding back, he's taking his time, like he could make Charles come by kissing him and rutting against his belly. He's not gentle. Charles's whole face is probably going to be raw from kissing. He hopes it will.

He arches up into the rocking of Erik's hips, hoping for a little friction. He's hard and leaking, cock trapped against Erik's glorious abdominal muscles and sadly unable to appreciate them without a little leverage. Charles whimpers into the kiss, not quite willing to stop making out and say what he wants.

But he doesn't have to. Erik lets go his bruising grip on Charles's hip and lifts up enough to slide his hand in between them. He cups Charles's cock at first, slides his hand up and down experimentally, then twists at the head so Charles hisses _"Fuck"_ and claws at his shoulders.

"Mm," Erik says. "Charles, just look at you."

"I'm afraid I c - an't - oh," Charles says, thrusting up into Erik's hand. "Perfect."

Erik breathes, "Yes," and bends his head and somehow without contorting himself into a knot sucks the head of Charles's prick into his mouth.

"Oh _God,_ " Charles moans, and, giving up on restraint entirely, clamps his thighs around Erik's shoulders.

Those big hands are holding his hips down flat on the sofa despite all his efforts to arch up into the tantalising wet heat, and Erik's lingering, teasing, sucking and tonguing and lapping at Charles's cock as if he simply enjoys the taste of pre-come, which is probably possible but not _that_ much and he really should just have some _fucking_ pity.

Erik laughs at him and licks him from root to tip. "If you knew what you look like," Erik murmurs, so close Charles can feel his breath on his cock.

 _"Erik,"_ Charles begs, "Erik Erik - ugh," when Erik takes him in again and sinks down all the way until Charles can feel his cock bottoming out in his throat.

Charles wants nothing more than to fuck Erik's mouth until it's bruised, and it seems again they're on the same wavelength because the pace as Erik bobs up and down is brutal, the fist around the base of his prick is tight and hard, punishing, but even though he's the one with his cock down Erik's throat Charles is in no doubt that he's the one who's getting fucked.

And he has no complaints whatsoever about that.

By the time Erik's done with him he's a shaking wreck, covered in sweat, thighs trembling. "Don't stop," Charles pants, and Erik doesn't. He sucks harder, sinks down till he chokes on Charles's prick, and with that Charles is coming so hard it's like being turned inside out. It hasn't felt so good in a long time or forever, blinding gut-wringing pulses of pleasure, hot arrows of something zinging through him so hard his toes are cramping with it.

"Oh fuck," Charles says articulately. He's melted into the sofa and temporarily incapable of moving a muscle, but Erik's bent over him with his mouth red and smeared with spit and come, massaging his throat ruefully and there's, God, come on his eyebrow, which should be funny but instead makes Charles wish fervently to fuck him again, even harder, as soon as possible. "There's - you've got a bit on your face," says Charles.

"Who cares?" Erik retorts. His voice is gravelly - not just sex rough but fucked-in-the-throat rough.

Bad enough to concern Charles, anyway, who struggles up onto his elbows and says "I'm so sorry, Erik, your throat - are you all right?"

Erik rolls his eyes. "Fine."

"Are you sure? I've got tea and honey... or brandy..."

"Charles," Erik growls, "I do not want _tea._ "

"I hurt you," Charles protests, but he's a bit relieved that Erik doesn't want him to stand up. His legs might not be fully functional yet.

The next thing he knows he's got a lapful of Erik pinning him down again. "I've heard about the English and tea, but this is ridiculous," Erik informs him, shifting positions to kneel astride Charles's waist. "Do you really want to discuss home remedies right now instead of sucking my cock?"

"No!" says Charles, trying not to salivate too much. In this position Erik's cock is just in front of his face - practically close enough to taste it, but not close enough to touch.

With a little wriggling he's sitting up against the arm of the couch, but he can't get any control if Erik's practically sitting on his chest. It's too bad, because in theory, sucking cock while relaxing on the world's most comfortable sofa sounds pretty good. Charles fits his thumbs into those perfect thumb-divots in Erik's perfect arse cheeks and strokes them regretfully. "I'm afraid that's not going to work," he says.

"What? Distracting you with my cock?"

"Oh no, that's worked perfectly," Charles assures him. "On your back, now. - Good. Your legs are immensely long. No, some other time I can lie back and let you fuck my mouth, but it's not exactly what I'm in the mood for right now," he explains, making himself comfortable between Erik's knees.

"As long as it's soon," Erik grits out. His tone is probably affected by Charles nuzzling the long line of groin muscle slanting down into his pubic hair.

Charles doesn't bother answering. He's got Erik spread out like a feast before him, and just because he intends to take his time and savour all those freckles and nipples and muscles doesn't mean he can't start right away. He sucks one of Erik's balls carefully into his mouth, tests the shape of it with his tongue and rolls it back and forth.

Judging by Erik's shout, this was unexpected.

Charles moves to the other one, for the sake of fairness, before allowing himself to graze his teeth along the crease of Erik's thigh. He hears the catch in Erik's breath and smiles to himself, regarding Erik's cock.

It's a nice cock, large and already flushed an angry dark red with frustrated arousal. Charles can sympathize. It's been a long night. On the other hand, he'll never take this cock in his mouth for the first time again. It feels like a bit of a special occasion.

"This is the best date I've ever been on," Charles remarks, addressing himself to Erik's cock mainly because from this angle it's hard to see his face.

"I can't remember any others now," Erik tells him.

Charles rewards him with a lingering kiss to the inside of his knee, then bends forward and kisses the head of his cock.

"Ahhh - Charles -"

"Mm." Charles kisses it again, just as lightly, nuzzling with his mouth relaxed and closed and letting the damp head drag against his lower lip, the bow of his mouth, feeling it from every angle.

"Cha - _ARL_ es - fuck -"

"Mm?" Charles hums, glancing up to make sure Erik is just sexually frustrated and not actually upset. He is.

"Please."

That's enough flirting, Charles decides, and lets the head slide into his mouth. A nice taste, an even nicer feeling on his tongue, musky and rich with sweat and pheromones. Nice, if nice is the word for something so overwhelming. It goes straight to his cock, and to his head, like a shot of liquor.

He doesn't even know what noise he made, but it has Erik clutching at his head in desperation and he doesn't even care that Erik's pulling his hair. In fact, he _likes_ it.

Charles takes a long, slow lungful of Erik and slides the rest of the way down, as much as he can take, until it feels like his mouth and throat and lungs are stuffed with Erik, dizzyingly. He holds it there while Erik's hands clench and then slowly relax on his skull.

When the hold becomes gentle he really starts sucking. It's a skill Charles has honed over quite a few years, at varying blood alcohol levels and various settings. He's probably given better blowjobs and certainly worked harder at them, to more appreciation, but there's never been one that he enjoyed quite like this.

There isn't anything special about Erik's prick of course - or perhaps there is, but nothing obvious and certainly nothing supernatural - but there might as well be, from the way Charles and his body are reacting to it. It was amazing when Erik blew him, but that was a given because everybody likes blowjobs and for God's sake, Erik's mouth could make a nun blush. But seeing Erik - feeling Erik - tasting Erik as he unravels bit by bit - it's intoxicating.

Pheromones are amazing things, thinks Charles, brushing delicately across Erik's perineum with his thumbnail and curling his tongue inside his mouth against the shaft of Erik's prick. Erik grunts and his body arches up from the sofa cushions in one long taut arc of flexing golden muscles. His intuitive feeling that Erik is the most perfect thing he's ever put in his mouth is so intense that he couldn't be more certain if he'd measured their compatibility on the microscopic level himself. He's practically purring with it, for God's sake.

He pulls back and flicks his tongue at the head of Erik's prick just long enough to slick his fingers with the spit and precome running down it. A strangled moan shakes out of Erik's chest, then turns into a shout when Charles penetrates the velvety ring of arsehole with a finger, just a bit rough and, he judges, exactly what Erik wants. Erik is hot and tight and Charles's satiation turns briefly to desire to be buried balls-deep in him.

"Fuck, _fuck_ , " says Erik whole-heartedly in time to his finger-fucking, and then Charles presses hard on his prostate and swallows around his cock, sucking the orgasm out of him. Erik comes in long, hard pulses, thighs jerking and then falling open, his arse clenching.

His expression is shocked and a little dazed when Charles lifts up to look at him, and Charles can't help smirking. "See? A good Classical education has its uses."

Erik knees him half-heartedly in the shoulder. "Your face is covered in my come and you tried to explain pheromonal compatibility with your mouth on my cock."

Charles is genuinely startled by that. "Did I? I'm surprised I was that coherent."

"You're an _incredible_ nerd," Erik groans. "And I didn't say you were coherent."

"I usually am," Charles assures him, looping his arm idly through the knee and trailing his fingertips through the springy gingery curls on Erik's thigh.

"For some reason, I never imagined Oxford style with that type of soundtrack," Erik says dryly, and wraps his other criminally long leg around Charles's waist, tugging him gently forward. The casual intimacy of the gesture is shockingly pleasant.

Charles gives himself a little shake and obeys the silent suggestion, sliding right up into Erik's arms. "Was that a suggestion? Perhaps it could wait for the third date."

Erik tips his head lazily against the arm of the couch, regarding Charles through heavy-lidded eyes. "Tired?" he drawls.

In answer, Charles kisses him, soft and slow. "I should practice if I'm meant to deliver a lecture with my cock between your thighs."

Erik snorts with laughter and drops the hand that's been holding the back of Charles's head in place. That leaves Charles free to put his head down and bury his face in the curve of Erik's neck. Since it's in reach, he licks it: the taste is just as good as he remembers. "Your pheromones must be truly remarkable," Charles blurts, nuzzling higher under the ear.

"The feeling is mutual, I assure you," says Erik. "Although I'm sorry to have to tell you that the same cannot be said for your pick-up lines."

"You can't possibly smell as good as I think you do," Charles explains. A small corner of his brain suggests that he should find some way to turn off the lecturing. On the other hand, Erik's arm has just tightened around his waist, pulling him away from the back of the couch and more snugly into Erik's side, so he clearly doesn't mind.

He feels Erik move to kiss the top of his head. "If you're not careful, I'll start to think you're only interested in me for my glands," he says drowsily, not sounding terribly concerned about the prospect. "Are there afghans around here somewhere or are we going to have to crawl down three miles of hall to the nearest bedroom?"

They unearth a polar fleece blanket from the floor under the front edge of the sofa, where it fell after Charles's last dvd/undergrad essays all-nighter, and a nice fringey cashmere thing that Raven bought to match the upholstery from the basket of magazines and game controllers above Erik's head.

"It's just down the hall and up half a flight of stairs. And around the corner," promises Charles. "Not three miles. I'll show you after a nap. The library's on the way, if you want to grab Plato."

"Fuck Plato," says Erik distinctly, and when Charles starts chuckling, adds, "not literally," but the smooth warm skin under Charles's ear shakes silently in amusement.

"Not on the second date?" asks Charles innocently.

Erik tangles his long long fingers in Charles's hair again and forcibly tilts his head back and kisses him quiet. The taste of come has receded a little, and interestingly enough, the lingering wisps of Coffey malt have moved back into prominence. Charles sucks lazily on Erik's tongue, where the after-taste is even better, and decides to order another case of the vintage.

"Go to sleep," Erik orders, and Charles punches the throw pillow into shape, nestles into it, and complies.

When he wakes up a bit later, deliciously comfortable as always when napping on the sofa but with his toes cold where they're sticking out of the blankets, Erik is propped up on the arm of the couch, playing with Charles's hair with one hand and his chess set with the other. He's dragged the poncy little antique end table that holds the set at least three feet closer without waking Charles, but then, considering how long Erik's arms and legs are, he probably didn't even have to get up to do it.

"You didn't have to start by yourself," Charles mumbles. "I've been woken up by stranger requests."

"This is a nice set," says Erik, rolling a knight between his long deft fingers. He looks like a conjurer. "Old."

"It was my father's," says Charles, rubbing his eyes. "He learned to play on it when he was a boy, I think. It might have been in the family. He died when I was young." Erik turns his head to look at him and his fingers stop their gentle scritching motions until Charles squeezes his extraordinarily bony hip in protest. "Playing has always reminded me of him. Made me feel closer, I suppose. It was a long time ago."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know," says Erik, not pityingly, and it doesn't get Charles's back up the way those words so often do. Charles can tell he's actually apologizing for what he said earlier about his mother.

He shakes his head dismissively and stretches. "Now, are you up for a hike yet? We've already covered childhood and oral sex. We ought to leave something for the third date."

Erik puts the knight back down and uses the freed hand to trace from the point of Charles's chin, over his Adam's apple, and down between his collarbones to the edge of the fleece. "Is there lube there?" he says, considering.

"Yes, and condoms. Also an en suite bathroom," Charles says.

"Fireplace?"

"Yes."

"Be still my heart. Is there a bed?"

"Um - careful, I'm ticklish! - I think I can promise a bed, yes." Erik's big hand flattens apologetically on his side, the fingertips stirring just gently enough not to tickle. "Four poster, actually."

"Oh, well. You've nearly sold me. Do I need to put on my shoes?"

Charles finds Erik's foot with his under the blanket. Even with his toes he can feel how ridiculously long and thin everything about Erik is. "No."

"Mm." Erik's eyes are closed, and one auburn ringlet has fallen onto his broad forehead. His mouth in repose is both crooked and curvy, a long exaggerated Cupid's bow with a dimple on one side as he smiles to himself. It's genuinely beautiful and makes the warm post-coital flutter in Charles's chest temporarily painful, until he rolls over and presses himself down so he feels Erik's heartbeat against his ribcage.

"Come on," Charles urges.

"Okay, okay."

As he watches Erik unfold his six and a half feet of lean muscle and stretch so shadows chase over his freckles, then walk unselfconsciously naked down the hall, all languid grace, Charles thinks again that he's just had the best date of his (possibly anyone's) life.

He's going to have to give Moira a raise.


End file.
